Chapter 7 Nicola
My mouth falls open in astonishment. Odin. Here. At my house. Again.
But this time, he’s not in a suit, stiff and formal, like he’d just escaped a boardroom and stumbled onto my chaotic corner of the world.
No. Today, denim molds to his thighs like a second skin, a faded grey t-shirt stretches taut across his chest, hinting at the muscles beneath, and work boots scuff my porch steps – boots that look genuinely, undeniably used .
And in his hands, he cradles a piece of board, coaxing it into place on my front porch railing.
My railing, the one I’ve been avoiding like a tax audit, sighing over its warped planks and gingerbread trim that looked less charming, more chewed by a beaver.
“What are you doing?” The question tumbles out, unfiltered, before my brain can engage. It’s sharper than intended, laced with accusation, but surprise has short-circuited my usual sunny demeanor.
“Finishing this.” He gestures towards the top rail, then with deft, masculine grace, taps it into place with a rubber mallet snagged from a tool belt slung low on his hips. A tool belt. On Odin Baxter. This day just keeps escalating on the weirdness scale.
“Finishing… my railing?” I take a hesitant step closer, squinting at the panel he’s just installed. Damn it all, it is perfect. Seamless. Professional. A stark contrast to my half-hearted attempts trying to follow online DIY tutorials.
“Looked like you were struggling.” His voice, a familiar low rumble, vibrates through the morning air, but there’s a new note w oven in, a thread of… softness? Nah, wishful thinking. Probably just the morning air playing tricks on my ears.
“Struggling is putting it mildly,” I admit, sighing, and raking a hand through my already unruly hair, probably making it resemble a bird’s nest. “I swear, this house has a personal vendetta. Every time I conquer one disaster, three more spring up to take its place.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, a fleeting upturn, but undeniably there. “Old houses are like that. They have character.”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that sends a tremor straight to my toes. Damn it, Nicola, focus. He’s still the enemy, the developer poised to pave paradise and put up a… well, a spa. Right?
“Thank you, Seriously. It looks incredible.”
“You’re welcome,” he says again, and then silence descends, a beat of quiet where we just stand there, looking at each other. The air hums, thick with something unspoken, something… charged.
“So…” I break the silence, the word feeling awkward, too loud. “How about a hot drink? As a thank you? For the railing… and the trim… and… well, everything.” Smooth, Nicola, real smooth.
“Yeah, tea with honey.” I rush on, the words tumbling out, tripping over each other.
“I could… I could make some. Or we could just have water. Whatever. It’s just…
a thank you.” Rambling. I’m definitely rambling.
I can hear it, but the words keep spilling out, a verbal avalanche of awkward gratitude.
He studies me for another long moment, those blue eyes searching mine, and I swear I can feel the heat bloom in my cheeks. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face, a real smile this time, not just a fleeting hint of one. And it’s… breathtaking.
“Tea with honey sounds… good.” His voice drops, a husky murmur that sends a shiver down my spine.
“ Tea with honey it is,” I say, relief washing over me in a warm wave. “Come on in. Unless you’re allergic to slightly chaotic vintage kitchens?”
He laughs again, a full-fledged laugh, deep and rich, and my heart stutters, skips a beat. “I think,” he says, that laugh still echoing in his voice, “I can handle a little
While I fill the kettle, Odin leans against the counter, watching me with an unnerving intensity. “So,” he says, his voice casual, too casual, “Riley tells me you’re a teacher.”
“Third grade,” I confirm, grabbing mugs from the cupboard, my movements feeling suddenly clumsy under his gaze. “Best job in the world, most days.”
“I bet it is,” he says, and there’s a genuine warmth in his tone that throws me. “Kids are… honest. Unfiltered.”
“Exactly,” I agree, setting out honey and tea bags, my fingers fumbling with the small packets. “They’ll tell you exactly what they think, whether you want to hear it or not.”
I make the tea, and for a while, it’s almost… normal. Like we’re just two people sharing a drink, not adversaries locked in a battle over zoning bylaws and neighborhood character.
When the tea is ready, we settle at the kitchen table, mugs balanced between us. Stevie, he explained earlier, is still with his mother, which makes things… easier, I guess. Less complicated.
“So,” I say again, after a comfortable silence punctuated only by the gentle clinking of mugs, “Are you and Stevie settling into the neighborhood okay? It must be a big change from city life.”
He stiffens, imperceptibly, but I catch it. His easygoing demeanor shifts, the shadows creeping back into his eyes, dimming the light that had just begun to flicker there. Ah, topic change. Noted.
“Yes. A big change,” he confirms, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. He takes a long swallow of his tea, avoiding my gaze. Riley made it sound…permanent.” I try to keep my tone light, curious, not pushy. “Sounds like we will be neighbors for a while..”
He finally looks up, and the weariness in his eyes tugs at something deep inside me. “It's a plan I’ve had in the works for a
while, but it took time for all of the pieces to come together. Stevie deserves a place to put down roots.”
He sets his mug down, the half-finished tea suddenly forgotten, the ceramic clinking softly against the worn wood of the table.
“It was time for a career change. Ever since I lost Sarah, Stevie's mom.”
His jaw clenches, the muscles bunching tight, and his knuckles whiten as he grips his mug. “You might remember the bus crash being in the news. Three years ago,” he says, his voice tight, strained. “Coming back from a show in Dallas.”
He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a visible effort to regain control, and finally meets my eyes again. “The bus… it went off the road. I was in the front, in the passenger seat. Everyone else…” his voice cracks, a raw, guttural sound, “they were in the back.”
His voice breaks on the last word, and I see the raw, untamed grief flicker in his eyes, a glimpse into a pain so profound it steals my breath. “I’m sorry.” I whisper, my own voice choked with emotion, mirroring his pain.
He nods, once, sharply, a curt, clipped movement. “My bandmates. My… manager. My wife.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and devastating, each syllable a hammer blow.
“I’m so sorry Odin,“ my heart is pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
I reach out, instinctively, my hand finding his arm, resting there, a silent offering of comfort. His muscles are tense, rigid beneath my touch, coiled tight with barely suppressed emotion.
He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t pull away. He just stares down at my hand, his gaze fixed on the point of contact, as if mesmerized by the simple human touch.
“ It was… a mess,” he continues, his voice still low and rough, each word a jagged shard of glass. “Front page news. Everywhere. The ‘rock star tragedy.’ They… they dissected everything. My music, my life, my marriage, my grief. It was… suffocating.”
“Odin, I… I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” I whisper, my hand tightening on his arm, a silent promise of support.
He finally lifts his gaze, meeting mine, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut, stealing my breath, silencing my thoughts. “No,” he says, his voice barely audible, a broken whisper. “You can’t.”
And in that moment, all the animosity, all the frustration, all the petty zoning bylaws and neighborhood disputes… it all dissolves, melts away like snow in spring sunshine.
All I see is a man who’s been through hell, a man carrying a weight of grief and loss no one should ever have to bear. A man who, beneath the gruff exterior and billionaire facade, is simply… broken.
I scoot closer to him at the table, my hand still resting on his arm, a silent offering of connection. “Tell me,” I say softly, my voice a gentle invitation. “Tell me about it.”
He hesitates, a long, drawn-out moment, then slowly, haltingly, he begins to talk. He speaks of the band, the years of relentless work, the arduous climb to the top, the electric thrill of playing before thousands of screaming fans.
He tells me about Sarah, his wife, their whirlwind romance, their fierce partnership, their deep, abiding love. He tells me about Stevie, the incandescent joy she brought into their lives, the bright promise of a future that was so cruelly, irrevocably snatched away.
As he speaks, his voice softens, the rigid tension in his body slowly, imperceptibly easing. He’s still guarded, still holding back pieces of himself, carefully rationing his vulnerability, but he’s letting me in, just a little bit.
And with each word, each hesitant glance, each shared moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, something shifts between us. The wall that’s been standing between us, brick by brick, starts to crumble, dust motes dancing in the newly forming cracks.
The tea grows cold, forgotten, but we don’t move. We just sit there, at my chaotic vintage kitchen table, bathed in the soft, fading glow of the setting sun, and he talks. And I listen.
When he finally falls silent, the room is cloaked in near darkness. I can barely discern his features in the dim light, but I can feel his gaze on me, intense, searching, probing the depths of my soul.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice husky, raw with emotion. “For listening.”
“Thank you,” I whisper back, my voice equally soft, equally raw. “For telling me.”
His eyes search mine, questioning, hesitant, seeking permission. And I know, in that moment, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that I want this.
I want him. Not the grumpy billionaire, not the ruthless developer, not even the ghost of the former rock star. Just Odin.
I lean in, closing the small space between us, and our lips meet. It’s tentative at first, a soft, hesitant brush, a feather-light touch.
But then, as if a dam has broken, the kiss deepens, intensifies, becomes something more.
His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, molding my body to his, and I melt against him, my own arms circling his neck, clinging, seeking solace and connection in his embrace.
His hand traces the curve of my waist, sending shivers down my spine, and I feel his fingers dip beneath the hem of my blouse, caressing the bare skin of my lower back, igniting a fire that spreads through my veins.
I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips, a sound of surrender and desire.
I l ose myself in his sheltering embrace, the world narrowing to just the feel of his lips on mine, the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the frantic rhythm of our mingled breaths.
The kiss is more than a mere physical connection; it’s a bridge spanning the chasm between us, a fragile, tentative bridge built on shared grief and burgeoning hope.
In that moment, I forget everything. The property disputes, the past traumas, the crushing weight of our separate responsibilities. All that exists is Odin, and the electric current that flows between us.
“I want you,” he whispers against my lips, his voice husky with need, raw with emotion. “But I want to take things slow, Nicola. To savor every moment with you.”
And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my soul, that I want that too. I’ve never felt so alive, so connected, so utterly, terrifyingly… seen .